


Never Fall Out

by yuuen



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Feels, Felix more like Feelix, First Kiss, First Time, Gratuitous Linhardt cameo, Gray Asexual Felix, Half-Asian Felix, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Karaoke, M/M, Millennials, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, POV Felix Hugo Fraldarius, POV First Person, POV Sylvain Jose Gautier, Requited Unrequited Love, Short Chapters, Slow Burn, Sylvain wears glasses, Texting, Unrequited Love, background Ingrid/Dorothea, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 16,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22920481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuen/pseuds/yuuen
Summary: If you fall in love with me / You'll never fall outModern AU. Centers around Sylvain/Felix and is told from alternating POVs. Bite-sized chapters so you can read at your own pace.Felix and Sylvain are stupid idiots sharing a bedroom who need to learn how to open up and talk about feelings, because they might finally realize they have more in common than they assume.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 25
Kudos: 117





	1. Felix: Tinder Date

**Author's Note:**

> I really gotta stop naming these after [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcl6NlaYxUg), but titles are _hard,_ man.
> 
> A little lighter than my usual fare. So far, really enjoying the extended wiggle room I have when it comes to language, thanks to the modern setting. Originally intended this whole thing to take place in art school, but I decided to go a bit older for this AU (late 20s).
> 
> Enjoy!

#### FELIX

"Sorry, Felix."

The more he says it, the less I believe him. It's become a common occurrence, me getting kicked out of our shared den so Sylvain can "entertain" a date. Is it really a date if they just go straight to bed?

What the hell do I know, anyway.

"Yeah, right," I say after an extended sigh. "If you were actually sorry, you'd quit doing it."

"Hah! Good one. You know there's no way."

"You could always move out," I suggest faux-cheerfully, tucking my laptop under my arm. I dig out my chargers from my desk drawer. It's going to be a long night.

"So could you," he counters. He sprays deodorant on conveniently just as I pass behind him; I wave the cloud away.

"I hate that one," I complain. "Buy something else. Smells almost as cheap as you are."

He mock-laughs. "Go ahead and bitch all you want, Fe. I'm still kicking you out."

"Don't call me that."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. Just be out by ten, would you?"

"I'm going now," I tell him, throwing all my shit into my backpack. Starbucks is busy this time, filled with studying college students, but being in this room sours my mood too much to stay.

"Suit yourself." He shrugs.

It's been a long time since I've looked at him, _really_ looked at him. Shirt open, jeans undone, hair messy—it's a look he sports often, Tinder date after Tinder date. I'll give it to him: he's no typical, heterosexual slouch. He dresses well, takes care of his body, makes it all look so annoyingly effortless.

He's always been too attractive for his own good.

To be in close quarters with this day in and day out should be more painful than it actually is. I guess I've just learned to tune out my feelings over the years. On nights like these, though, it gets difficult.

He really looks good in that shirt.

I pluck out a leather jacket from his side of our shared closet and set it down on his bed.

"You think?" he asks.

"I know."

I hate the nameless, faceless girl I know waits for him on the other side of his phone screen. I hate her for being something he wants. I hate her for easily being able to acquire what I can't.

But I want Sylvain to look his best for her, regardless.

I dive back into the closet and pull out something else from his side: a long, charcoal-colored cardigan.

"I thought you settled on this," Sylvain says, patting down the jacket sleeves as he appraises the outfit in the mirror.

"I did," I say, slipping into his cardigan. It's way too big for me, but that makes it just right: comfortable and warm, perfect for settling in for a long night drinking coffee and watching Netflix in a Starbucks on my own.

He just smiles at me in the mirror as I leave the room. If he'd protested, I would've walked out wearing it anyway.


	2. Sylvain: Boyfriend Cardigan

#### SYLVAIN

Fuck, he's cute when he wears my clothes.

I know that cardigan's his favorite, too. Even on days I don't see him wear it, it always smells like him when I come home from work. I hardly wear it anymore in the hopes that he'll wear it instead. When he leaves the room to take a shower or put on the kettle, I pull it out of the closet and resist the urge to wrap myself up in it. And it's _my_ cardigan, for fuck's sake; I'm allowed to snuggle up in it all I want. The only compromise is giving it a long inhale—creepy, I know—before putting it away again.

He smells like a girl. Is that wrong of me to say? Whatever. It's true. That delicate, floral kind of clean, like peach and silk blossom (according to his body wash in the shower), whatever a silk blossom even is. Even his shampoo smells like candy. (I used it once. He bitched me out for it. Don't I know he imports it from Japan and it's thirty dollars for the whole set? Idiot!)

I'll gladly pay for his shampoo if it means he keeps his hair as pretty as it is. If he cuts it, I think I'll actually cry, like legit full-blown sobbing you shouldn't see from a grown-ass man. The way it curls around his shoulders when he takes it down, the glossy shine, the intoxicating scent of camellia and warm _Felixness_ all mingled together... ah.

And here I am on yet another boring date with someone who isn't him. She has all the personality of store brand paper towels.

Emma? Anna? Their names and faces all blend together. I suppose this makes me an asshole, stringing girls along like this. (Ingrid certainly thinks so. She never lets me hear the end of it.) I sneak a peek at my phone beneath the table just to double-check. _Jenna._ I was close. Kind of.

She's pretty in the conventional sort of way. Dark brown hair. That's a plus, given who's actually on my mind. Decent body, great legs. Face is fairly bland and forgettable, but it'd be mean to call her anything but pretty when the reality is she's just _safe._

Hope she gives good head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went into this with the intention that Sylvain would hide his gay pretty well even in first-person. That he'd be in denial. That he wouldn't be able to articulate his feelings.
> 
> Failed on the first line.


	3. Felix: Don't Get Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of watching his dates through Instagram or Snapchat, I wonder what it'd be like to be on one of them with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri's here! —oh, nvm, he's gone.

#### FELIX

I get home from work before Sylvain does. Some days when our schedules are similar, we carpool—perks of working in the same building complex—but today's not one of those days.

I briefly pass Dimitri on his way out, probably to work given the time of day.

"Almost forgot what you look like," I remark. He's hardly ever home anymore and he owns the damn place. Well, his parents do. It's definitely his once he finally gets his master's.

He shoves a Clif bar into his mouth and kicks the fridge shut after grabbing his daily green smoothie. Gross.

"Trust me," he says, mouth still half-full, "I'm so busy I don't remember what I look like anymore either." He pauses to swallow, then smiles wryly. "Probably like shit."

"I wasn't gonna say it," I respond. Yeah, I was. "Have you even been sleeping?"

"Whatever that is." He grabs his keys from the table next to the front door. "Gotta go. —Oh! Tell Ingrid I made her a smoothie."

I hold up two fingers in a peace sign as he whirls out the door. Fucker needs to breathe. Going to school full-time _and_ working full-time doesn't really add up. My parents would love him, though. He's every Asian mom's dream (then again, he's not going to med school, so is he really?).

Speaking of the parents, they're still waiting for me to settle down and get married. I think my dad knows I might not be into girls; he's from Switzerland—how much gayer does it get than Europe? My mom, though?

"Why you can't find a girlfriend, Felix?"

Because I don't want one. Fuck, I don't even want a boyfriend. Relationships sound like too much effort, and for what? True love and gooey, warm companionship? Cuddling? Valentine's Day? Ugh. I'd rather sit through all the worst movies I've ever seen than get married and have kids.

And yet I still find myself in bed fantasizing about going out places with Sylvain. I mean, yeah, we do that sometimes, but not in _that_ way. Instead of watching his dates through Instagram or Snapchat (which I wouldn't have, by the way, unless he hadn't strong-armed me into downloading them; he's literally my only friend on _so_ many apps), I wonder what it'd be like to be on one of them with him.

Not to mention we're getting to that age where people start getting married. Ingrid and Dorothea are engaged, hyping everyone up about their _June wedding._ (Ha, guess Glenn was such a shitty boyfriend that he turned Ingrid off guys altogether. I still give him shit about it.) Dimitri might be in a serious relationship by now if he wasn't so busy. And Sylvain... well, he's still hopping off one girl and onto the next. But occasionally, he gets roped into more serious relationships.

Those scare me.

I dread the day he announces his engagement or posts a video of himself getting on one knee. I can envision it all too clearly: professional videographer, romantic stock guitar music, his fiancée-to-be crying with her hands over her face, and Sylvain with that sweet smile he only gets when he's in love, the smile he'll never send my way. Thinking of that nonexistent video makes it hard to breathe.

His birthday's next month. He'll be twenty-eight. His parents want him to get settled; hell, they nag us both about it when we go over for dinner, holidays or not. They might as well be my second set of parents; Glenn and Sylvain were besties in elementary school, and yet somehow I'm the poor sap stuck with Sylvain now. Point is, we've all known each other for way too long, and now I've basically got four parents who are nagging us to get on the wedding train already (because if Glenn can somehow get married, we can manage to, too).

There's an invisible clock looming over me, counting down in glaring red digits.

Sometimes I wonder if it'd really be so bad if I just came out and admitted I like him.

Stupid. Of _course_ it'd be bad. He's never once showed interest in a guy; why would I be the exception? I don't have the right parts. If there's no tits and ass, he isn't interested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my _god_ just TELL him. FUCK


	4. Sylvain: Yes Homo

#### SYLVAIN

God, Felix has a cute ass.

Kinda difficult to play at _no homo_ the first time I fantasized about pounding that. I don't even want to admit how long ago that was, either. Let's just say that ass has gotten a ton of mileage in my dirty fantasies. Thought I'd have gotten over this... _thing_ by now, but it seems like whatever it is I have for Felix just gets stronger with every year. Am I even gonna survive this thirst until thirty? Fuck, bro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yup. That's it. That's the entire chapter. lmao


	5. Felix: The Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Sylvain drive to Felix's parents' house for dinner. Sylvain is obnoxious as usual.

#### FELIX

I drive tonight. Egregiously ignoring the code of the road that dictates driver is the DJ, Sylvain connects his music to the Bluetooth. What a headache. I indulge him, though; after all, it's my parents we're going to see. He could've stayed home, but my parents insisted he come along. It's just a weeknight dinner to catch up. I think Glenn's coming too. Nothing out of the ordinary, though knowing my parents, they'll probably want to give Sylvain his birthday gift early.

Sylvain's on his phone, swiping between chat windows in various apps and tapping out quick messages in each one. Once we're at a red light, I watch him go, halfway in awe. That's a skill I've never acquired, nor do I want to.

"Just how many girls do you talk to at once?" I blurt out. Shit. Didn't mean to ask that out loud, but it's out there now. "Looks exhausting."

"Not as many as you think," he responds, eyes fixed on the screen. Vague. He knows how to be vague when it'll irritate me the most, like right now.

Then again, _anything_ he says irritates me.

"And definitely more than you deserve," I shoot back. The light turns green.

He's unusually quiet. Usually he relishes in any chance he has to punch back at my jabs. Instead, he ignores me and continues attacking his phone with his thumbs. Dick.

My phone lights up on the dash.

> MESSAGES now
> 
> **the idiot.**
> 
> ouch. you just mad I never send you any messages?

Ah. The road's straight enough that I comfortably shoot an extended glare Sylvain's way. He beams. Cheeky bastard.

"I can, if that's what you're after," he adds verbally.

"I'd rather receive a gift-wrapped dildo in front of my parents," I say dryly.

He bursts out laughing; I try not to blush. "Oh, don't joke, Fe, I can make that happen."

"Will you stop with the _Fe?"_

> MESSAGES now
> 
> **the idiot.**
> 
> I can call you sweetie instead 👌

I'm glad it's dark in the car because my face is suddenly way too hot. Even my ears hurt from the sudden rush of blood. I grip the wheel tighter.

"I'll block you," I threaten.

> MESSAGES now
> 
> **the idiot.**
> 
> I'll miss you if you do. 🙁
> 
> MESSAGES now
> 
> **the idiot.**
> 
> don't leave me baby 😫😫😫

I take the left turn way too fast. Sylvain drops his phone. Light scatters across the windows and dash like a strobe as the phone goes flying, then everything is blissfully dark.

I smirk and pitch my voice up innocently: "Oops."

"Uh-huh. Fuckin' _oops."_ Sylvain backs his seat up a little (well, as much as he even can, since the seat's already pretty far back) to grope around the floorboard. He looks like a dumbass, reaching between his stupidly long legs for his phone. Good. I'm satisfied with that.

I'm free to smile openly while he's preoccupied.


	6. Sylvain: Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinnertime at the Fraldarius residence.

#### SYLVAIN

Felix's parents are pretty loaded. Not like Dimitri's, but their house is still pretty impressive in that upper middle class way. I'm always surprised Felix isn't more of a snob. Well, okay, no—he is a snob, but not in _that_ kind of way. I mean, he shares a room with me, which means occupying space with pizza-grease-stained plates and napkins, a constantly unmade bed, and clothes I'm too lazy to fold and put away. (I clean up before I bring girls over, all right? I'm not a complete monster.) I'm surprised Felix still tolerates me if this is the environment he grew up in.

Glenn opens the door.

"What's _up!_ Look at these two. What you all dressed up for, fools?"

"We're not," Felix says, elbowing past me and Glenn to enter the house. "You just dress like shit."

"It's true," I agree with a grin.

Glenn laughs. He's lightened up a lot since we were teenagers, enough for us to go in for a respectable bro hug now as adults. The weight of his wedding band hurts as he claps my back, leading me inside. Smells like roast chicken and expensive candles. Love it.

"Where's your girl?" I ask.

"Got a cold," Glenn says. "Left her with some phở and Hulu."

"Wish that was me," I mumble.

I peer over Glenn's shoulder at the various, tastefully framed photos of him and Felix on the walls. There's even one of them standing next to me and Mick. Glenn and I had to have been about thirteen in it, my brother nineteen-ish, so Felix around ten or eleven. He straight-up looks like a girl. Most notably, the older Felix gets in the photos, the less he smiles. The only memory I have of Felix smiling all-out is through these elementary school keepsakes. His parents are a treasure for taking good care of them and keeping them on prominent display.

We enter the dining room, where Felix's dad greets us. The guy's nice as hell, but he's always given off lowkey suburban vampire vibes. For a guy in his mid-fifties, he looks remarkably youthful. The streaks of white at his temples give him away but the dude's cut is straight out of a Pinterest haircut wishlist type of deal. It's smooth as fuck. Dude must've been rolling in pussy when he was our age.

Felix's mom is cute as hell, too. Glenn and Felix both have a good mix of both their parents' genes, but it's clear Felix still leans more towards his mom's features. Is it fucked up to call Felix small? Well, he is. Glenn, Dimitri, and I shot up in height. Felix never quite caught up.

That's all right. Being so small, if he acts up, I can just pick him up and toss him. Ha.

A cat skitters out from beneath the dining table and slinks out of the room. I'm stupid for wearing black; I should know better by now. My arms are already dusted with white hairs and I haven't even touched anything besides Glenn. I honestly have no idea how many cats these people have. I feel like I see new cats every time I'm here.

We all sit down to dinner. There are two things that always come up during dinner with Felix's parents: Dimitri and my current relationship status.

Rodrigue is borderline-obsessed with Dimitri. Surprised _his_ preppy ass isn't up on the walls.

And here comes the infamous dinnertime line: "Ah, that Dimitri's a good kid."

Felix and I glance each other's way. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Felix bites his lip, maybe to keep from doing the same. Fuck, I wish he wouldn't, though. Last thing I need at the dinner table surrounded by Felix's entire family is a boner from thinking impure thoughts about their sweet baby angel.

"Sylvain, you have a girlfriend yet?"

Ah, subject number two.

"Nothing serious," I respond, hurriedly shoving prosciutto-wrapped asparagus into my mouth as if a full mouth ever warded off these types of inquiries.

"Still?" Felix's mom looks even more disappointed than mine does about it, shit. "Look at Glenn! Married one year already. And you're cuter!"

"Wow, thanks mom," Glenn says, laughing.

"It's true!" she squeals, and pinches my cheek. Ow. "Look at him. So good-looking! He should have five girlfriend by now!"

"I think he does, mom, that's the problem," Glenn says.

Felix pushes a baby potato around his plate. He's the only one not smiling or laughing. I force a laugh. Shit like that's come easily to me since I was a kid. No one knows when I'm faking it.

Except Felix, probably. Not Glenn, not Dimitri. Just Felix.

I keep an eye on Felix. His sudden bad mood seeps into me. He probably thinks I don't notice he gets like this every time his mom—and my mom, for that matter—get to asking about my relationships or when I'm getting married.

I used to tell myself it was because it reminded Felix of his own lack of relationships and he hated the pressure our parents put on the both of us to hurry into marriage already. Then I figured maybe he just hated that his parents would ask me shit like this but not bother with him, like maybe they liked me better than their own kid.

But those theories were easily thrown out. Felix doesn't give a shit about relationships, marriage, or following some preset life path, and his parents clearly adore the hell out of both their kids.

I mean, I'm no Sherlock Fucking Holmes, but there's only one option left to deduce from the evidence, right?

I give Felix's ankle a nudge with my foot.

He doesn't jump or even react. What the fuck? —Oh, right. The cats. He probably just thinks it's one of them. So I just all-out kick him.

"Ow! What the hell, Sylvain!"

Ah, that gets a reaction! I smile at him across the table. "You're moping. —Wait, how'd you know it was me?"

"Because who else's legs reach that far!" He reaches under the table and bobs around for a moment as he rubs his ankle.

"My b."

He scowls and my smile grows, nourished by that pissy little face. I'm happy: if that scowl means he doesn't look so goddamn crushed over the idea of me getting hitched, then I'll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glenn's alive and covered in cat hair.


	7. Sylvain: Love You, Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the formatting isn't too hard to read.

#### SYLVAIN

Lights are out. Arm tucked beneath my head, I stare at the streaks of light stretched across the ceiling. I should probably just get up and kill time downstairs until I actually get sleepy, but I don't feel like it. I pull my phone up, half-ignoring the wall of notifications on my lock screen.

> SNAPCHAT now
> 
> from Kelsie-kittie
> 
> SNAPCHAT now
> 
> Kelsie-kittie is typing...
> 
> MESSAGES 14m ago
> 
> **Sarah P**
> 
> We still on for Friday night birthday boy? 👅💦
> 
> INSTAGRAM 26m ago
> 
> **[sylvain_jg] th0tsofyou97**
> 
> thanks boo 💕 like u shirtless more though lol x

I bypass it all, open my texts, and scroll down a bit.

 **Today** 12:38 AM

you up

I peer over. Felix's phone lights up and reflects onto the wall next to his bed. For a moment, it looks like I got to him too late. But then he reaches for it.

> MESSAGES now
> 
> **babygirl** 🔪✨
> 
> what.

bored 😪

> ...you can't just talk to me from four feet away?

I could but I said I'd text you more so you won't feel left out

also you're texting back btw

you could just talk to me too

hypocrite

❤

> I'm blocking your number
> 
> bye

I chuckle and drop my phone down to my stomach. I peer over at Felix, hair tucked neatly under his head on the pillow, blanket up to his neck, and his back turned to me. _Turn around,_ I will him. _I want to watch you fall asleep. I just need to look at you. Turn around._

But he doesn't.

"Good night, Fe."

There's a rustle from his side of the room. "Eat shit," he mumbles, half-asleep.

"Love you, too," I respond. I've said it so often and I mean it every time. I wonder if he knows that. I hope he does, because I don't have the balls to tell him.


	8. Felix: 6 AM

#### FELIX

I can't stay asleep. Sun's not quite up yet but the room is light enough that closing my eyes is a fruitless task. I check my phone.

**5:53**

Thursday, June 4

Ugh. Considering the date, maybe I'm just anxious about Sylvain's birthday tomorrow, especially with the weekend ahead.

I can't believe my parents reserved a beach house for Sylvain's birthday. Honestly, what if we'd already made plans to go someplace else that weekend? Even Dimitri freed up the two days to tag along. Black magic. Getting him to clear up two hours to hang out is impossible enough.

It's too early to be this awake but I throw the sheets off and get up anyway. The room's eerily quiet save for the drone of the air conditioner and Sylvain's soft snoring.

He's remarkably less annoying when asleep, snoring and all.

Maybe he thinks he's good at hiding the tension between his brows and clenched in his jaw after long work days or phone arguments with his brother. I notice, though. Especially when he's asleep and all that tension's melted away. Far from the pervert clown he is when he's awake, he looks almost sweet and innocent when he's out.

Sprawled on his back, with one arm curled up on his pillow and the other extended out next to him, he somehow manages to be a mess even when he's sleeping. Altogether, he looks like the reclining Adonis statue at the art museum he works in: tranquil expression, gently sloping torso with sculpted musculature, and an artfully draped sheet across his lower body.

I both know what his body feels like and don't. I've never touched it in _that_ context.

Besides that, though, he has such thick lashes; they're not the first thing most might notice about him (not with those shoulders), but I like them. Unlike his brother, Sylvain got the genetic luck of the draw when it comes to his nose.

But it's his mouth I linger on the longest.

Actually, what the hell am I doing standing between our beds at six in the morning watching him sleep? Way to be a fucking creep.

I hurry out of the room. A shower will fix everything.


	9. Sylvain: At the Altar of My God

#### SYLVAIN

I open my eyes finally.

How long did Felix watch me?

The pipes shudder as the shower starts up in the next room. I pivot my head to one side and stare at Felix's empty bed. Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, I pull myself to my feet and cross the gap between our beds.

I lean over, place my outstretched palm onto the sheets. Still so warm. Carefully, listening intently to the shifting sounds of water as Felix moves in the shower stall, I climb into his bed. It smells so strongly of him. I inhale deeply, immerse myself in his presence, absorb his residual warmth, imagine what it must be like to make love to him here, slow and deep.

I'm reckless. He tells me so all the time.

But ever-devoted, I kneel at the altar of my god. I'm his entirely, lost to my secret religion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words. This boy's too far gone.


	10. Felix: The Fifth of June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 5th. Sylvain's birthday... but where's Sylvain?

#### FELIX

It's the fifth.

I spend the morning pulling all of Sylvain's birthday gifts together from their various hiding spots in the room: one in my underwear drawer (...wow, I really hope he wouldn't look in there), one shoved so far under my bed that I have to borrow one of Dimitri's lacrosse sticks to fetch it, and another thrown into a box with my winter clothes to go undetected. He's out of the house but he didn't tell anyone where he went. He has the day off because he doesn't believe in working on his birthday. My guess is he's probably out with his friends. Maybe a girl. ...Likely a girl.

I ignore it by putting too much energy into wrapping the gifts in thoughtfully-chosen tissue paper. I stood in the Daiso gift wrap section for a good fifteen minutes trying to find a suitable coordination that wasn't covered in girly declarations of love or faux-French. One navy blue bag and one gold, with gold tissue in the blue bag and blue tissue in the gold bag. Seems too simple for that much time worrying over it, but whatever. It's done.

I set the gift bags onto his bed after making it for him. Fresh white linens and a patterned maroon duvet I bought him ages ago in the hopes that he'd use it (he promptly set it in the closet and forgot about it). I tried not to look at his old bedding when I stripped the mattress. The last thing I need to see right now is _evidence_ of what he and his dates get up to in here. Like it's not _my_ room too. Ugh. Anyway, might as well extend this small gesture to be nice to him... and myself, really, because I'm so tired of him not making his bed. How old is he? Ridiculous.

We're all going to the beach house this afternoon. God, my parents just got my car detailed for me. Clearly Sylvain's their favorite (besides Dimitri). Can't imagine what they'll get Glenn on his next birthday. A vacuum cleaner? Well, whatever. I can't deny I benefit from their gift. Work stress has gotten heavy on my shoulders and a couple of nights by the beach sound like the perfect medicine.

With everyone out of the house, everything's too quiet. My thoughts are deafening. I don't want to be alone right now. I hate to admit it, but I wish Sylvain was here. I don't even care if he word vomits about stupid shit. I just want to hear his voice.

That's selfish, though. It's his birthday; he can spend it with whoever he likes.

I check my phone. Open up my texts. He's at the top of my recent messages. I know I'm not at the top of his; he gets so many messages it makes my head spin. I'm probably buried under fifty other people. I open the chat window and hover my thumb over the keyboard.

No. I shouldn't bother him.

I toss my phone aside. What is wrong with me? I rub my face in my hands, taking a few steadying breaths before I feel ready to uncover my eyes. Maybe it's the work stress again. I don't know.

Yes, I do. I would just rather not think about it.

I stand up. We planned on leaving at five. It's three now. Might as well get ready to go.

I play music loudly. No one's home to complain about my depressing Spotify shuffle. I take a cold shower to rinse away the summer sweat. I blow dry my hair so I don't have to go to the rental with sloppy, wet hair. Not a good look. I take my time pulling my hair back into a high tail, pinning it into place so it falls only where I want it to. What a waste of time; I should just hack it off.

The only reason I haven't yet is because Sylvain asks me not to. (I know. When was the last time I actually did what he asked me to?) Says long hair suits me.

Maybe somewhere in the back of my head I believe that if I keep growing my hair out, I might finally get him to notice me in a different way. It's idiotic. Judging from the multitudes of blend-together faces of the girls I see on his phone, literally nothing I can do will get him interested. I don't look like them. I don't want to, either. I hate that it all bothers me, but it does. And it bothers me more than it did a year ago, and the year before that, and the year before _that._

This is useless. If I don't have the courage to be honest with myself or with him, then I deserve to be this miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went into this fic with the idea that it was going to be Felix who was really spicy for Sylvain but he's just turned into a miserable little wreck who doesn't think he's good enough for him and _I just want him to be happy oh my god_


	11. Sylvain: Birthday Gifts from Felix

#### SYLVAIN

I come home to some droning-ass indie bullshit playing at full volume from upstairs. Electronic beats, acoustic strumming, and whispery female vocals? Felix must be in his feelings again. I weave through the kitchen and up the stairs a little more quietly than usual. Just in case he's in a mood. Or crying. Man, I really hope not.

I've walked in on him crying once. He still doesn't know I saw him. He acts like he's too good for that shit, like nothing can penetrate his ice sculpture of a heart, but feelings gotta go somewhere. Can't keep them in forever. I don't know what he cried about. He acted like his same asshole self when he came downstairs a few minutes after, carefully cleaned up and eyedropped back to white eyes. Couldn't cover up that red nose, but I didn't ask about it. Probably would've knifed me if I had.

"Felix?"

I enter the bedroom, only to have him pop up behind me from the bathroom. Didn't even realize anyone was in there.

"It's almost five," he gripes. "Is anyone ever on time anymore?"

"I'm on time," I protest, checking my watch. "It's my birthday. Shouldn't you be nice to me today?"

"No."

I put my arm up against the door frame, effectively blocking his way in. I grin at him. He's a goddamn snack, hair all done up and wearing a thin shirt that drapes off his shoulders in all the right ways. The fresh, floral smell of his shampoo and body wash drift warmly from the bathroom.

"Did you get all dolled up just for me?" I tease.

"Fuck off, Sylvain." He glares and ducks under my arm to get in the room. "Oh, and happy birthday, I guess."

He gestures over at my bed as I follow him into the bedroom. Not one, but two gift bags. They look like art, shining sun-gold and matte cobalt sitting on my—gasp!—freshly made bed.

"Damn, Fe, you even made my bed. I gotta wife you."

"Would you shut up."

"What'd I do to deserve this?"

"Good point," he says, scowling and flopping down on his bed. His cheeks are red. Cute. "You don't deserve it."

I twirl around and melodramatically clutch my chest. "Shoot me with your barbs all you like, Felix, but they're all cupid arrows in the end. This just proves you like me, somewhere deep down in that black void of a heart you have in there."

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

I pick up both gift bags and weigh them in each hand. One's definitely heavier than the other. I peer past them at Felix, framed in the middle. "Well, which one do I open first?"

"I don't care."

"Fine. Gold it is." The lighter one. I pull out all the blue tissue to reveal a black gift box wrapped in rust-colored, knit fabric.

That turns out to be another long red cardigan, similar in style to the one Felix basically stole from me.

"I figured I might as well get you another one," he explains, "since I always take yours."

"Aren't you thoughtful," I hum. He's got good taste. It's even better quality than the gray one.

Next, I pluck off the lid of the accompanying box. Inside is a pile of multicolored dice, at least three distinct sets all mixed in. I feel like a pirate who's just opened some bomb ass treasure. I roll a d20 around in my palm, admiring its jet black shine. The numbers are painted matte black, making them just barely noticeable against the obsidian die faces. Now that's what I call goth, volume 666.

"Dude. These are rad as fuck."

Another set is blood red and black, with brilliant red glitter and gold numbering. The last set is teal with black galaxy swirls and silver sparkle and numbers, outer spacey and gorgeous as hell. All of them are heavy and well-made, none of the cheap resin garbage you get in game shops or on Amazon.

"The blue ones glow in the dark," Felix tells me.

"Are you shitting me! I can't wait to use these." My next D&D session's gonna be so lit. ...Literally, if they turn the lights off.

Oh, and I almost forgot there was another bag. Fuck, the cardigan and dice are already great. I pick up the navy blue bag, the heavy one. I rifle through the gold tissue paper until my fingers close around something solid. My nail scrapes against it and my first instinct thanks to my job is it's marble. That would explain its weight. I peer inside, gently pulling the contents free.

My mouth drops open. It's a small reproduction of Albacini's _The Wounded Achilles_ in white marble, with the fatal arrow delicately rendered in gold. The despair and grief in his face at the death of his lover, Patroclus, paired with the unabashed sensuality of his sculpt is mesmerizing. Achilles's head tossed back, resigned to death, the line of his neck inviting as it slopes into the youthful curves of his torso and shapely legs.... Pretty homoerotic, let's be honest—not your typical heroic, manly warrior statue. But it's one of my favorite sculptures, one I instantly fell in love with when I saw it on a work-related trip to Chatsworth House in England. I remember sending photos of it to Felix at the time. That was years ago, though. And he remembered.

"What the hell, Felix. This is perfect."

"Figured you'd like it," he mumbles, rubbing at his neck. "Plus you have an empty spot on your desk just asking for it."

I go to the desk and lovingly set the statue down in that empty spot. Perfection.

Perhaps I love it so much because I relate Achilles to Felix. He's stronger than his years and stature would suggest, never letting anyone get the best of him. But he's got his weak spots. He must. All these years and I still haven't found out to pierce through his weakness with my arrows.

(And Felix has shapely legs, too. Better than Achilles's.)

Man. He went all out for me. I could kiss him, I'm so happy. That'll never happen, though, so I'll have to compromise. I grab him by the wrists.

"What are you doing—?"

I tug him into standing up and wrap him up in a tight hug. He makes noises of protest, but I don't let go. He had to expect this with gifts like that. I lean my head down, pressing my cheek against his fragrant hair.

"Thank you, Felix."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES Sylvain plays Dungeons and Fucking Dragons and there's nothing you can do to convince me otherwise. I bet he DMs a few games, probably plays a bard in the ones he doesn't DM.


	12. Felix: Thank You

#### FELIX

If he squeezes me any tighter, one of my ribs is going to snap. Does he forget how much bigger he is? I'm not exactly fragile, but shit.

Well, no use fighting it. He's not going to let go. So I release the tension in my limbs and let myself be hugged. I fear the awkwardness of reciprocating, but as I slide my hands around his body and onto his back, there's no awkwardness whatsoever. It just feels... right.

I mean, we've definitely hugged before. Hard to escape it with touchy-feely Sylvain jumping everyone with his overdone affections when he's in a good or stupid mood. Especially when he's drunk. But not like this. This is something genuine.

His lips are too close to my ear. A frisson runs the length of my body when his breath stirs the hair there.

"Thank you, Felix."

When he shrugs off his ever-present shield of levity, his voice lowers into this uncharacteristically mature tone. I can't stand it. My ears and cheeks burn to the point that I'm sure he can feel me blush. I melt against the solid warmth of his body, leaning my cheek against his collar.

When was the last time I hugged someone like this? Have I ever?

I don't know why my eyes are watering or why my throat feels tight. If he breaks away, if he even looks at me right now, I'll start ugly-sobbing. I don't know why I will, just that it'll happen.

Thankfully, he continues to hold me. How long has it been? Probably just a few seconds. But it feels like heavenly eternity. Who knows when I'll ever get a moment like this again? So I enjoy it now, relishing in the feel of his chest against my head, the sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the spiced scent of his deodorant—the one I actually like—mingled in with my body wash. (God, he really needs to stop being lazy and buy his own. He ran out of his a week ago. No excuses.) For now, I take comfort in it, our bodies, scents, and heartbeats all wrapped up into one.

The garage door opens, shaking the windows and filling the house with a low hum. I suppose that's our cue. I don't want to let go.

Sylvain slips away from me at last. His hand lingers on my upper arm. The other runs through his hair. Nervous? Awkward? He certainly looks it. Damn it. I shouldn't have let the hug go on that long.

"That'll be Dimitri," he says. "Got your bag all ready to go?"

"...Yeah. Got packed this morning." My voice sounds far away. I clear my throat and break away from him completely. My weekender sits at the foot of my bed, waiting for a few last minute toiletries before we can pack up the car and go to the beach house.

I turn to Sylvain but his back is to me. Of _course_ he didn't pack his bag until the last minute. I go to the closet, sliding open the door.

"It'll be faster this way," I tell him, unhooking items from the hangers and placing them on the bed next to his weekend bag.

He smiles.

I thought it was one of those dumb clichés, but my knees actually go weak. It's the smile. The smile I've always longed to see directed my way, and now that it's here, I don't know how to react. Why is he looking at me like that?

"Thanks." His voice is back to that hushed tone, the one that reverberates through my flesh and cuts straight into my gut. No, even lower than that.

I turn back to the closet. I can't stop blushing today. It's disgraceful.

"You're lucky it's your birthday," I tell him.

"I am lucky it's my birthday," he acknowledges, "and that you're here for it."

I stop halfway to the bed, a pair of his jeans in my suddenly stiff hands. I stare at him. Why is he talking like this? My first instinct is to bite back at him, to tell him he's an idiot and that he better pack his own damn bag because I already made his whole-ass bed.

But I just stare at him, mute, my mouth set in a rigid line.

Unexpectedly, he laughs. That infamous shield is back up in an instant. He gives my cheek a couple of quick pats—I squeeze one eye shut—and walks past me towards the bathroom.

"If you weren't here," he calls back, "I'd have to pack my shit myself."

Bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of late for this but follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/arcana_black) or something. Comments are also warmly welcomed, even stuff as simple as a line you liked. 💕


	13. Felix: The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CW:** Mentions of mild drug/alcohol use.
> 
> Welcome to Sylvain's beach house birthday hangout! Cameos from quite a few students, too many to list in the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the most chaotic scenes I've ever written holy shit. Then I went and punched myself in the gut with depression. Uh, enjoy...?

#### FELIX

It's too loud in here. Not even a good sort of loud, just chaotically loud.

The moment Ashe stumbled upon the karaoke setup in the living room, it all went to shit. Claude is wasted, yelling—not singing—some heartfelt ballad at Dimitri, who looks like he's ready to shit himself with embarrassment. What are friends for? Mercedes sits back-to-back with Dimitri on their shared ottoman, gesturing at Annette, Edie, and Hilda as they yell-talk to each other over the awful keyboard rendering of Adele. They'd be on the side couch if not for Linhardt, who, despite the blaring noise shaking the walls (of the house and of my skull), is sprawled across it, Xanned out of his fucking mind. Ashe and Ferdinand take turns stacking chips on his face; Ashe's Pringle stack is winning. Lorenz is nearby, pretending their antics are so stupid and why would anyone do that, all the while recording the spectacle on his new iPhone he won't stop bragging about. Ingrid and Dorothea hold hands, swaying in time on the loveseat, singing loudly along as they gas Claude up for some reason. Probably the Molly.

Claude slurs his way through the end of the song. Tries to get Dimitri to join him. As if Claude's singing isn't bad enough, I really hope we don't have to hear Dimitri's tonight. What a terrible birthday present.

The birthday boy sits in the chair across from Dimitri. He isn't alone, of course. He's got his latest fling on his lap, her fingers twirled in his hair. She's drunk, high, or both, singing along as Sylvain laughs it up. I don't remember what she said her name was when we were introduced earlier. All I heard was the ringing between my ears, the painful beat of blood in my neck.

I'm in the kitchen with Dedue. It's a sanctuary of sorts, empty save for us and the occasional drunk partygoer swooping in for another beer. He looks just about as done as I am, leaned over the kitchen island, taco in one hand, Saint Archer in the other, and pale eyes on the chaos set out like a burning Renaissance painting before us.

"Is this what a migraine feels like?" I remark, rubbing my temple.

"Mercedes probably has something for that," he says, then glances at Ashe gleefully _woohoo!_ ing over the mess of chips on Linhardt's face. Dedue winces. "Something more _over-the-counter."_

"Ha. Right. Think I'll just step out."

He nods once and goes right back to his taco. I finish off my drink and round the counter, diving into the horror. I squeeze past a few girls I've never seen before—Sylvain's "friends" maybe?—and duck through the living room. Before I get too far, someone grabs my hand.

I follow the high-waisted jeans up to their owner: Mercie smiles at me. Thankfully she leaves it at that, maybe because it's too loud in here to even chat, given Claude's "singing," the karaoke music, and the completely different fucking music playing from one of the bedrooms. I squeeze Mercie's hand and continue on. I pass between the couch and Sylvain's chair. It takes everything in me not to look down at the two of them.

This is fine. It's fine. It's his birthday and he deserves the smile on his face. If this is how it needs to happen, then it's fine.

I tell myself that, but why does it feel like my chest is ripping so sweetly in two?

I slide the back door open and step out onto the patio. Once it's closed, there's only the dull thud of the party behind me and the softer whisper of the waves before me. It's after midnight, but it's a full moon tonight, so the beach is fairly illuminated and the black water touched with a white streak.

The scent of cloves hits my nose. I look to my left. Edie's weird goth friend is out here smoking a Djarum Black, eyes fixed on the ocean. He doesn't acknowledge my existence. Well, no relaxing on the patio, I suppose, if he's out here haunting it.

I follow a set of stairs that leads from the patio straight onto the sand. Even the alcohol's warmth doesn't quite ward off the cold tonight. Strange, for a summer night, but it's still better than being inside right now. Amazing how much clearer my head already feels after a minute of salted air and relative quiet.

But an empty head brings a flood of unwanted thoughts.

I sit in the sand, far enough away from the house to escape Edie's friend and the bass, but comfortably distanced from the tide. I watch the moon fall through the sky, follow the lights of distant ships on the horizon, allow the roar of the waves to invade my senses.

I can't stop thinking of him.

Of his arm around her waist, his hand on her bare thigh, fingers too close to the hem of her skirt. Of his smile and loud laugh—anyone else might find it annoying. I often do. But right now it rings through my head, taunting me with a sense of happiness I gave up on finding a long time ago.

I don't think he noticed me leave.

_Selfish._

That's all I am, wishing in vain that on this day of all the days out of the year, he might actually be thinking about me right now, the way I'm thinking of him. That instead of his hand on her thigh, it might be on mine instead. I wonder how he looks when he's caught up in blind ecstasy, lost in pleasure. I've thought about it so many nights. Sometimes I fall asleep before it hits me that I'll never actually know.

I don't want anyone else. Only him. And he wants everyone else. Not me.

Time drags on. How long has it been since I came out here? I squeeze my eyes shut; the moon's burned a black hole into my retinas. Either the ocean's gotten louder or the party's finally quieted down. I check my phone. Later than I thought.

This pity party isn't to my taste. I've let this go on too long. I wish I knew how to pretend he doesn't matter to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Think I like you best when you're just with me_   
>  _[And no one else](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4sbDxR22z4) _


	14. Sylvain: Just Hold Him

#### SYLVAIN

Fuck, it's cold out here. So much for summer. Marine layer's in, some of that infamous June Gloom. Backlit by the moon, the fog shrouds the beach in an uncomfortable glow. Might be pretty, if I weren't so frantic.

House finally cleared out completely but Felix is nowhere to be found.

Edie's creepy dude friend (Robert? Hubert? ...Nah, no one would name their kid Hubert.) mumbled something about having seen Felix out on the beach before they left. Jesus, I hope not. Felix gets cold easily; can't imagine him hanging out here for more than ten minutes before he turns into a popsicle.

I bound down the concrete stairs and into the sand. The fog makes it hard to see, but there's just enough light to make out a lone figure sitting out there. I pick up my pace, half-jogging over to him.

"Felix!" I call out.

It takes him a moment to turn his head back over his shoulder.

"God, what are you doing out here?" I pant, dropping down on the sand beside him.

He shrugs. "Thinking."

"Yeah, well, come inside to do that instead," I tell him. Impulsively, I slip my hand around his. He tries to pull it away but I hold it tightly. It's a lump of ice in my warm hand. What the hell is up with him? Just how long has he been out here? A spot of temper clouds my voice. "You're freezing, Felix! Jesus. You should've stayed inside."

"It was too loud," is all he has to say to that. Fair enough. But he makes no sign that he's going to get up. Too bad for him; I'm not going back in without him.

"Well everyone's gone. So let's go. You're gonna freeze to death out here."

He really might. He's wearing the same thin shirt from earlier, its wide collar exposing his shoulders and neck, and the sleeves only reaching his elbows. His pant legs are rolled up to mid-calf. He isn't even wearing shoes. It's like he has a death wish.

"Come on," I urge him, this time gripping his arm to make sure he comes with. "Let's get back inside. We'll have a drink. Warm you up."

He doesn't say anything as we make the walk back to the house. He's even more melancholy than usual. It seems to have gotten worse lately. What was an undercurrent of quiet displeasure has surfaced into something far moodier.

I wish I could just hold him.

I want to stroke his hair and cheeks, tell him everything'll be okay. That I'm here for him and he doesn't have to worry about a thing. Kiss him until he forgets it all.

After we brush off the sand, we go back inside. I close and lock the patio door; no more going out there tonight. The living room's a wreck, but cleanup can wait until tomorrow. TV finally shut itself off after an eternity of dancing around in screensaver mode. Karaoke mics are strewn across the coffee table, sofas, and floor. An abandoned drink sweats onto the coffee table, pooling around pastel-colored pills next to it.

Pretty much everyone's gone save for a couple who were too far gone to even Uber home: Linhardt's curled up on the couch (Ashe got him a pillow and blanket from one of the linen closets) and Claude, literally dragged there by Dimitri and Dedue, is sleeping it off in Dimitri's room since his was the closest to the living room.

There isn't much left in the way of alcohol, but there is an untouched bottle of Stella Rosa in the fridge. Probably Dorothea's. Finders keepers. I pop it open and pour out two glasses. The overhead light's off, leaving just the recessed lights beneath the cabinets to light our late-night rendezvous. Around our wine glasses, red shadows dance across the countertops.

Felix looks so... small, arms curled close to his body, quaking from head to toe.

"Drink. You're shivering."

My eyes settle onto the way his lips kiss the rim of the glass. I purse my own lips in response, wet them with a slow pass of my tongue. Never been jealous of a fucking inanimate object before, but here we are.

"Guess Lin and I are roommates tonight," he says, peering across the counter at the sleeping lump on the couch.

"What?"

He cradles his glass in both hands. The lack of stem makes it easier. "Just figured I'd get kicked out again tonight." He won't look me in the eye.

"Ah." I take a sip, let the wine and his words sit on my tongue for a long moment. "You really think I'd let you sleep in the living room?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," he says, laughing softly into his glass. His laughter is never genuine, just bitter. Sardonic. Sometimes I forget what his real laugh even sounds like. "Besides, one of us has to. Leave it to my parents to rent out a house with three bedrooms for four people."

I rub the bridge of my nose beneath my glasses. Contacts came out as soon as everyone left. I open my mouth to say something, but Felix keeps going:

"Dimi's hardly going to let me crawl in with him. Ingrid and Dorothea... well. Then you and whatever her name is."

Figured. He thinks Sophia's still here. I suppose I can't blame him. She was all over me tonight, not by choice, but hard to tell her to get off my dick in front of everyone I know. Can't be the guy who kills his own birthday party.

"Sorry," he says. His voice is laced with poison; it's the most insincere apology I've heard in ages. "I should probably make a better effort to get their names straight. But to be honest, I don't care anymore."

Stella Rosa really bringing out the bitch in Felix tonight, huh? I'd be offended if I wasn't a little turned on. (What? Even I don't know anymore. No point fighting it.)

"Guess I deserve that," I remark, finishing off my glass. I immediately pour another, and top Felix's off while I'm at it.

Linhardt turns over on the couch. His arm smacks loudly onto the floor.

"Come on," I say, jerking my head in the direction of the bedrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's become my new goal to include Linhardt in everything, regardless of whether or not he belongs.


	15. Felix: Felix.exe has stopped working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've always admired his hands. They're probably the only halfway elegant thing about him: long fingers, defined knuckles, the irresistibly masculine trace of veins running across the backs. I'm often enthralled by the way he sharpens his pencils with borrowed knives from my collection. The way he pushes his glasses up, the frames perched between thumb and middle finger. The way he bites the knuckle of his ring finger when he's lost in thought at his computer.

#### FELIX

Looks like the birthday boy claimed the master bedroom. We walk into the dark. A lamp clicks on, revealing a tasteful, contemporary bedroom decorated in beachy hues of teal on clean white. One wall features planks of reclaimed beechwood with the occasional display of succulents.

I take one last gulp of wine before setting the glass down on top of the dresser.

A sudden weight falls onto my shoulders. It's a throw blanket, I realize after a slow second. Sylvain's hands are on my shoulders, much heavier than the blanket. I've always admired his hands. They're probably the only halfway elegant thing about him: long fingers, defined knuckles, the irresistibly masculine trace of veins running across the backs. I'm often enthralled by the way he sharpens his pencils with borrowed knives from my collection. The way he pushes his glasses up, the frames perched between thumb and middle finger. The way he bites the knuckle of his ring finger when he's lost in thought at his computer.

Maybe it's just the wine on the brain, but he's taking forever to move his hands away.

"Better?" he asks from behind me. His mouth is too close to my ear.

I clutch the blanket close to me and nod. Instead of pulling his hands away, he slides them up my neck and into my hair. I stiffen up. "Sylvain?"

"Might be warmer with it down," he reasons.

"It's fine," I protest. If he's worried about me being cold, then it's resolved now: I'm burning up from cheeks to ears to neck.

"Would you just let someone take care of you for once?" he gripes back. His fingers untangle the hair tie holding up my bun. He's surprisingly careful about it, sliding it free without ripping my hair from the roots. "You were so much less stubborn as a kid, you know that?"

"We're not kids anymore."

"No shit."

He slides the pins out of my hair. It untwists with the help of gravity, unraveling down to my shoulders. The tension of having it up all day eases all at once. I lean my head back ever so slightly and sigh. He runs his fingers through the strands, working out the post-bun lumps and finding more hidden hairpins.

"Better?" he asks, muffled; he's got the pins held between his lips.

"Whatever." Why is it so hard to just say yes?

He drops the pins onto the dresser. "You were always happy then."

"What?"

"As a kid. It was so cute, the way you attached yourself to Dimitri. I'll be honest, I was kind of jealous that you always picked him over me."

"Jealous? Of what? We were kids. Besides, you and Glenn were stuck to each other, too. You didn't want anything to do with your best friend's little brother."

"Huh. I remember it differently. Plus, Glenn was a little bastard and you were adorable—"

"Ugh."

"—and you were always following Dimitri around."

Well, yeah. Dimitri was the nice one. He didn't play mean pranks on me like Sylvain and my brother did. And anyway, it isn't true I exclusively wrapped myself around Dimitri. There's a reason Sylvain and I are still best friends all these years later.

"I followed you around, too," I remind him.

"Ha, yeah. I guess you still do."

"Shut up."

He finally pulls away from me to take a sip of wine, except he mistakenly picks up my glass and half-drains it. His tortoiseshell frames catch the lamplight. I don't think I've ever told him how much I like them. That would just blow up his ego even more. But they suit him, despite his aversion to letting anyone know he needs them.

"You know," he says, tapping a finger against the glass, "the more you bitch at me, the more I like you."

"Don't be an idiot." I turn away from him and the light, shrouding my face in comforting shadow.

"No, really, Fe. All these years and you've been the only one I can open up to. I mean Ingrid tries but she's got her own thing going on now. Dimitri... well, he's him. But you? You're brutal. Vicious."

"And that's supposed to be a compliment?" I ask, scoffing.

"Yeah. It is. You constantly give me shit and I love it because everyone else around me just sugarcoats everything. You never treat me like I'm an idiot"—he holds his hand up as I begin to say something to that—"who needs to be... I don't know, pitied. You never go soft on me."

"I think you need to stop drinking that," I tell him.

"No, listen. You need to hear me out." He puts the glass back down and steps closer, invading my bubble. I take a step back in response; there's an intensity in his eyes that sets me on my guard. "That's not all of it. I know why you do it, why you put up this cold front. I mean, you're a bitch to everyone, let's be honest."

"Wow." I can't tell if he's trying to insult or compliment me, anymore.

"But you're worse to me. Always. I used to let it get to me sometimes. And fuck, I get it, Fe. We have different ways of... of... coping."

"Sylvain." I raise my voice; I have to. My tone cuts through his increasingly frenzied blabber. "What the hell are you even talking about?" Just how many drinks did he kick back before finding me outside?

"You _know_ what I'm talking about," Sylvain says. His voice goes eerily quiet, sliding back into that infuriatingly mature timbre that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"No—"

"You _do._ And I can't...."

He trails off, voice trembling. My heart twists into a knot. The room is suddenly too quiet save for the softest whispers of the waves filtering past the walls. Sylvain sighs loudly and takes his glasses off, as if they're suddenly too heavy for his face.

"I can't pretend anymore."

_Pretend?_ My heart races, thudding painfully against my sternum. Just when I think I'm beginning to understand his point, it eludes me again once he says something new. My mind is chaos, replaying chopped bits of what I wish he'd say but I know he won't.

"I just...." He runs a hand through his hair, keeping it there, tugging the waves back away from his forehead. His fingers are shaking. "You... you're... so incredibly fucking _right,_ Felix, and I fucking love you."

I stare at him. What...?

Is this just another replay running through my mind? He didn't actually say that. He didn't just tell me he loves me. There's no way. The cold, the wine, the constant rumble of waves—it's all scrambled my brain like runny eggs.

"Please, just... just let me love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Felix.exe has stopped working._


	16. Sylvain: Let Me Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's beautiful. My breaths are caught in my throat. I can't handle the sight of him.
> 
> "H... how long?" he pants.
> 
> I don't have to ask him to clarify. We're on the same wavelength. We always have been, even as distinct as we are.
> 
> "Too long," I tell him.
> 
> How much time have we wasted, both of us at once wanting the same thing but too afraid to take it?

#### SYLVAIN

Fuck fuck fuck, oh my god. I can't believe I just blurted that out. The one time I'm not smooth, like, at all, and it's the one time that actually matters. Who asks permission to love someone? Me, apparently. Fucking idiot. _Fuck!_

I gotta fix this.

I take his face into my hands. He's only mildly warmed up, probably the wine. He looks too shocked to say anything, even one of his usual cat-scratch comments. I use that to my advantage, sliding my touch back behind his ears, his silky hair caught up in my fingers. I stare down into his eyes, garnet-red in the lamplight, wild and scared.

"Please...." It's barely a whisper. It's more my mouth just moving. A pleading puff of breath.

I kiss him.

I kiss him like I've always dreamed about kissing him, heavy and heated and hungry. I can't wait anymore. I can't pretend I don't want him when all I can think about when I wake up and before I sleep is Felix. I think about him when I'm with other people. It's his face, his body, his voice that haunts my fantasies. I think about him when he's not around. I think about him when he _is_ around. _Felix._ It's always been Felix.

He doesn't pull away. I should've expected this but a pleasant shock overtakes me nevertheless. He tips his face up into the kiss.

We hold each other as our lips speak the volumes we've never dared to voice aloud. My hands on his face—his pretty goddamn face—and his hands wrapped around my wrist and forearm. I press my body closer to his, revel in the feel of it as my warmth invades his night-frosted limbs and core. I told him I'd warm him up. I keep my promises.

Kissing him feels like kissing for the first time, thrilling and heady. There's no elegance to the kiss, not like in movies. This is needy face-mashing and I fucking love it. Maybe I'm getting carried away, though, by the sound of the kittenish whimper that rises from Felix's throat.

Jesus. Who knew he could sound like that? My pants feel too tight, suddenly.

I pull away to allow him to catch his breath. To gather his thoughts. But I stay close, lips just a whisper away. His eyebrows turn up at the center and his eyes focus on my mouth rather than my eyes. I've never seen him look like this. So vulnerable. Scared, almost.

He's beautiful. My breaths are caught in my throat. I can't handle the sight of him.

"H... how long?" he pants.

I don't have to ask him to clarify. We're on the same wavelength. We always have been, even as distinct as we are.

"Too long," I tell him.

How much time have we wasted, both of us at once wanting the same thing but too afraid to take it?

I slide my grip to the back of his neck, cradle him as I dip down for another, longer kiss. I work his lips open with mine, tease my tongue between them, and kiss him deeply. His fingers rake at my sleeves. It takes a lot of energy to slow down for him. I don't want to overwhelm him and, even for as greedy as I am, I want to be present in the moment.

Yeah. This is just right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh, _finally._
> 
> I'm always writing more! Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/arcana_black), I like to bitch about what I'm writing when I'm procrastinating.


	17. Felix: Kaiju

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's fine," he says. He takes both my hands in his and pulls them to his body once more. He swirls his fingertips encouragingly along my wrist. "I'll go as slowly as you need me to."
> 
> I flush. "That's...." That's probably one of the nicest things he's ever said to me. Not that he isn't always nice—he isn't me, let's be honest—but it's still sweet. As much as everyone gets on Sylvain's case for being an idiot, no one can ever say he isn't one of the most wide-hearted and considerate people they've ever met.
> 
> "Pretty gay, huh?"
> 
> Way to ruin it, Sylvain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a delay; haven't been feeling too well lately, plus I wanted to finish the entire scene before posting the included chapters. But I feel bad about leaving it where it was, so here's a little more!
> 
> Please note the rating has been upped to Explicit. 🌶  
> Sorry, I'm plantsing this one. (It's not like me to just go where my whims take me, but this is the result.)

#### FELIX

This is the first time I've kissed someone and it's felt _correct_. Granted, the past (few) times were in high school and college, barely substantial enough to count. Those were kisses as fleeting as paper planes, lost to the wind. The only thing they were good for was pushing forth the budding realization that I'm asexual.

This, though? Sensations never before felt burst like fireworks beneath my flesh. The way his mouth feels against mine makes me lightheaded. Pleasantly so, but lightheaded nevertheless.

Sitting out on the beach tonight, wrapped up in my feelings, this isn't how I imagined my night would end. I was fully prepared to take up residence on the sofa, sky lightening with dawn into the floor-to-ceiling windows, unable to sleep, thinking past bitter tears about Sylvain and that girl from earlier in his room.

She isn't here. It's just me and him and the soft crash of waves.

His hands are always so warm. Even more so now, sliding beneath my shirt. Between kisses, my breaths come too quick; he's going slow for me, but I'm swept up into a maelstrom of first-time jitters, stage fright, and just an overwhelming panic of _Oh my god this is Sylvain on top of me and we're making out and there goes my shirt._

I've never felt all that self-conscious about my body but it's hard not to feel vulnerable when I'm exposed physically and emotionally. Worse, Sylvain pulls up off me, leaving me exposed. He's heavy, straddling my hips, but the firmness of the bed takes some of the pressure off. He reaches back, tugging his shirt over his head.

Okay, I lied. I'm self-conscious as fuck right now.

Sylvain has always been taller and bigger than me; he would've been even if we were the exact same age. Doesn't matter how much food I pack away, I've always been skinny. Sylvain, on the other hand, used to be a beanpole until he filled out way too easily in his mid-teens. Back then I really thought it was body envy, that I was just upset and fixated on him because I could never manage to build muscle like he did. God, I was stupid. Even something as simple as smoothing his hair back down highlights his broad shoulders and collarbones. I admire the graceful musculature of his arms, the exquisite trails of veins coursing down his biceps and forearms. A strong shiver courses down my body at the way his torso slopes down into his lean waist and offensively erotic hips, on full display thanks to the low dip of his sweats.

It's just extremely unfair a nerdy art curator has a body like that. What the complete fuck.

Tentatively, I reach my hand out to him. An inch away, I stop, suddenly embarrassed.

His fingers wrap warmly around mine. He brings my hand the rest of the way. My palm comes to a soft landing atop his abdomen. Hesitantly, I smooth my hand across the firm ripple of his abs. His body feels just as good as it looks.

"I thought you weren't scared of anything," he says.

"Shut up," I mutter, immediately pulling my hand away again. "This... this isn't—I'm just not used to this."

"It's fine," he says. He takes both my hands in his and pulls them to his body once more. He swirls his fingertips encouragingly along my wrist. "I'll go as slowly as you need me to."

I flush. "That's...." That's probably one of the nicest things he's ever said to me. Not that he isn't always nice—he isn't me, let's be honest—but it's still sweet. As much as everyone gets on Sylvain's case for being an idiot, no one can ever say he isn't one of the most wide-hearted and considerate people they've ever met.

"Pretty gay, huh?"

Way to ruin it, Sylvain. He laughs. It's disarming. Despite my nerves, despite everything, I crack a smile too. Just a little one, tugging at the side of my mouth.

"Stupid."

"You wouldn't have me any other way."

He's right, infuriatingly enough.

I explore his body with my fingers, roaming lower, through the trail of auburn hair leading from his navel down to the waist of his sweats.

Difficult to avoid staring at the obvious outline of his dick in those sweatpants. Jesus. We've been undressed and briefly naked around each other before—we've shared a room for two years now, not to mention just _existing_ as teenage boys at one point—but this is different. I swallow nervously; the light's gotta be playing tricks on me, or we're just so close to each other that his dick looks bigger than it really is.

He doesn't _really_ have a goddamn _kaiju_ hiding under those sweats. I mean, this is Sylvain. That would be ridiculous.

I forget about it for now as he lowers back down onto me. Oh, this feels a thousand times more indecent already with our shirts off. I guess that's juvenile of me, getting excited over something so basic as skin-to-skin contact, but whatever. The kiss he gives me is sweet and slow, a comforting treat before his lips travel down my chin and throat. The comfort slips into a heated flinch as he sucks on my neck.

"Sylvain," I whisper. "You'll leave a mark."

"I don't care," he murmurs.

I give him a light smack on the shoulder. "Fucker, _I_ care!"

"So cover it up."

"Yes, idiot, let me just put on my scarf and turtleneck in fucking June."

"You'll be fine," he insists, running his tongue across the sore mark he's just branded me with. Fuck. How am I supposed to resist him when he does shit like that with his tongue? He makes something so simple so raunchy, just by looking the way he does when he does it: he won't stop staring up at me from under his eyebrows, the usual playfulness in his golden eyes turned into something sultry, almost predatory. It's unbearable. _He's_ unbearable.

"Fuck, you're so cute," he says softly, his mouth pressing kisses across my collar and down to my chest.

"God, can you not?" I bring my arm up to my face, covering my mouth with my wrist in utter embarrassment.

Pretty sure Sylvain's consistently the only one who's called me cute since, you know, the age where kids stop being cute. Annoying, usually, but right now, strangely validating. How was I so blind? I thought then that he was just messing with me every time he'd call me cute, but the way he sucks soft kisses across my chest now serves as evidence of the truth behind his words.

His fingers play with my nipple. Oh... that's. That's pleasant. Never stopped to wonder if I was sensitive to that until now. His lips close around the other; I suck in a sharp breath. Guess I'm sensitive after all.

I allow myself to indulge in his hair, running my fingers through it as his mouth sucks sweetly at my nipple. He smells like my shampoo—the shampoo I told him to stop using. I'd be irritated if it wasn't driving me completely wild right now. Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes, taking in the new sensations, allowing my body to be open to whatever Sylvain has to give.

Until his pants come off.

N... no way. I pride myself on being an expert at hiding my emotions, but I'm openly taken aback. I tense up. My eyes widen. My mouth falls open. I'm in complete meltdown.

How the _fuck_ does this utter moron have such a huge cock! No goddamn wonder he's always so overconfident. He has nothing to prove to anyone; the proof's in his pants. I'd be kind of awestruck, honestly, if it weren't for one crucial fact:

His giant dick is going to rip me in fucking half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know what a kaiju is, [here you go](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaiju). Leave it to Felix to be interested in giant, city-stomping monsters.


	18. Sylvain: So Cute

#### SYLVAIN

Oh my god, Felix is so cute, so small. I gotta protect him. I love him so much.

Maybe that's a bit over the top, but I can't help it. The soft noises he makes when I touch him the right way? Adorable. I never thought I'd manage to pull any of this sweetness out of him, but here it is.

Not gonna lie, I'm a creep when it comes to Felix. I know it. I'm not proud of it. I always sneak peeks at him when he changes clothes in the room. The way he demurely turns away every time he undresses, as if his body is something to keep hidden away from prying eyes— _my_ eyes—never knowing that all the while, I'm staring at his soft little peach of an ass.

He's so slender, with the kind of silky, androgynous curves to his body that drive me fucking insane. His resting (and active) bitch face are a wonderful defense, masking the softness under his clothes.

Looking down at him now I wonder how I made it this long without touching him.

I can't get enough of the suggestive curve of his hips. His hairless, supple thighs, spread out beneath my eager hands. The tempting length of his neck. The sexy dip of his navel. His pretty _everything._ God, even his nipples are cute, like little caramel candies. Okay, that's stupid, but that's how ridiculously delicious he is all over. It's almost infuriating until I remind myself that those pink bruises on his neck and chest are mine. I put them there. And they won't be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh sylvain is such a lewd creeper I'm sorry


	19. Felix: You Don't Know How Many Times

#### FELIX

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. I'm going to die. He's going to kill me with that thing.

He feels heavier now that we're both entirely naked. Thankfully, he rolls off to my side. Except from where he is now, it's blatantly obvious the way he stares at my body. This is what conveyor belt sushi must feel like, or a Vegas casino buffet. I've never felt so exposed, so embarrassed, and Sylvain... has never looked so horny. I feel as if I'm not meant to see that face.

He spreads my thighs, which elicits an indistinct but immensely shameful noise from my throat. Sylvain just smiles in response, stroking the flesh of my inner thigh, sending a strong and visible shudder along the length of my body.

"Good?" he whispers, his voice suddenly an octave deeper. Raspier. Touched with sex. All in that one infuriating word.

I swallow hard and nod. I have to bite my lip to keep from making more of those noises. My pulse races and I remind myself to breathe out. Sylvain leans in, brushing his lips against my ear.

"You don't know how many times I've imagined you just like you are now," he whispers between kisses.

"Stop it," is all I can think of to say. Seriously though! Stop. The idea that Sylvain was lying less than five feet away from me at night, fantasizing about me naked and spread out for him, probably with his hand down his boxers, is lewd as hell.

Grinning, he skims his hand up my thigh, taking hold of my cock. His touch is experimental—he's really never fucked a guy before, has he?—but confident. I bite back a moan. It's the first time anyone's touched me like this. He won't stop smiling. He's really enjoying this. I hate him. And I hate how easily he pulls pleasure forth, a magician conjuring it up from within my body.

"You sound even better than I thought you would."

"Shut _up,"_ I say, unable to manage more than a whisper as shocks of delicious euphoria ripple up my body. I can't keep my mouth closed, can't hold back the panting, desperate breaths that he so hatefully strokes out of me.

"You first," he says with a soft laugh. Bastard. He always has to get in the last word. Before I can fix that, he kisses me yet again. My mouth is so sore. I love it despite the pain, or maybe because of it.

All night, he's kissed me like we'll never get to kiss each other again. Touched me the way a worshiper would idolize his goddess in the flesh. That's the one thing keeping me from losing my mind. I'm feverish with want for more, only barely clinging onto some semblance of control. I can't lose it like this.


	20. Sylvain: Taking It Slow

#### SYLVAIN

I have to keep reminding myself to rein it in a bit, to take it slow with Felix. I know he's putting up a strong front, the way he always does, but he's at his most vulnerable right now. He's never been in a relationship that I know of. Never expressed any real interest in other people. At least one of his very few social media profiles lists his sexuality as _Asexual._

Not gonna lie, that was a huge reason why I never bothered jumping over that barrier between us.

But we're close enough to have talked about it, too. About how he doesn't have those feelings for other people. And I still remember the way he tucked his hair behind one ear and looked pointedly away from me when he said: "It's corny as hell, but it'd have to be someone really special." I remember hoping that someone was me. I remember _knowing_ that someone was me, and my mind shutting that down almost immediately in utter denial.

"If it's too much," I whisper for what has to be the twentieth time tonight, "I can—"

"Don't stop," he whispers back, his voice so drenched in pleasure I could probably come off the sound of it alone. He's always had a sexy voice. Too bad he never answers when I FaceTime him, the brat.

None of it compares to the way he sounds when I slide my fingers inside him. His chest rises with quick, shallow breaths. His thighs quiver—god damn, that's hot. He's incredibly fevered inside, clinging so tightly to even just a single finger. It takes effort and patience to manage another. (Bless whoever owns this house for keeping some high-quality lotion on the nightstand. My new patron saint.)

I watch him intently as my fingers move inside him. Fuck, he has no right to look so pretty, so _erotic._ This is new to me and I gladly stare at him, burning this image into my memory forever: the wet part of his mouth, puffy and deep pink from how much we've kissed, the persistent flush in full bloom on his high cheekbones, the thickness of his short lashes, the way his brows twist with concentration, his dark hair sticking to his damp forehead.... It's a perfect picture. He's perfect, all of him.

God, I don't think I've ever been so painfully hard in my entire life. I've wanted this so long. Thought about the infinite ways this could possibly play out—all the while knowing it'd never actually happen—and indulged in fantasies all across the spectrum of innocent to dirty. I've thought about this sweet scenario before. Thought about bending him over my work desk and pulling on that long hair of his. Thought about his pretty lips around my cock way too many times to count, especially when he tells me to fuck off or shut up.

There's time for all of it. So I can take this slow.

Never has taking it slow been more important than now, when I finally enter him. I know I'm not exactly easy to take, but I've got a lot of practice under my belt. The last thing I am is unaware of my size. And god, he's so, well, _small_. The last thing I want to do is hurt him and put him off this altogether. But god, I've hungered for this moment for so long.

I breathe out a sigh of utter satisfaction. I can't believe I'm inside him. I stay close to him, pressing soothing kisses to his feverish forehead.

"Go slow," he pleads. He's long since dropped the boss bitch act. He's pliable beneath my touch, clearly afraid of pain. I guess I can't blame him. I want to be good to him. I will.

So hard to go easy, though, when his soft thighs feel so good around my waist. He looks at me like he might cry. All of that cold exterior has melted away into this soft candy sweetness. The deeper inside him I push, the more he whimpers so sweetly; his tight entrance opens up to me and I sink in inch by patient inch. It takes everything I have in me not to just fuck him all-out.

Again, we'll work up to that. It's cool.

"You good?"

He nods breathlessly. He's clinging to me like he'll fall to his death if he lets go. I can see the discomfort on his face, can see how he clenches his jaw against any noises he wants to make.

"Breathe," I whisper, brushing a kiss against his ear.

A little of the tension leaves his body. Good boy. I give his hips an encouraging squeeze and continue working my own hips, pushing in and pulling out in shallow movements to get him used to this. Even that much feels amazing, honestly, so tight, so deliciously slick.

Taking him face-to-face is absolutely necessary. His expression tells me when to slow down, when to proceed. I keep kissing him, too, when I sense he's overwhelmed; it forces me to slow down. I stroke his sides and caress his hair and cheek to reassure him. I drink in every last expression he makes, radiant and flushed with pleasure. He looks even better than I ever imagined. I bury my face into his neck. He smells so good I could get off on his scent alone.

And the way he moans... _fuck._ He holds tight to me, arms around my shoulders, gasping my name in shivering breaths between sweetly pained groans of mind-devouring pleasure.

I never thought I needed this as much as I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an ace, just made sense to me that "kid not into dating but really into swords" translated into "one of us" but I mean I'm also hot for Sylvain, so here we all are in this together. Help.


	21. Felix: A Stab to the Heart

#### FELIX

The deeper he thrusts, the more I want to cry out. But I clamp down on it all. Ingrid and Thea are in the next room. Honestly, the house is so quiet that everyone would hear me. Even the staccato creak of the bedframe worries me.

"Don't hold back," Sylvain says suddenly, as if reading my mind. He certainly isn't holding back, his soft grunts and pants filling the room. His thumb parts my lips, releasing a long, shuddering sigh I locked within them. He ducks his head down against my neck, groaning as he picks up the pace of his hips.

I moan loudly. I didn't realize my voice could sound like this. It's embarrassing. But we're past the point of embarrassment tonight. So I let the moans flow freely.

He's... insanely deep inside me. And fuck, it hurts. But it's bearable, if weird as all hell; there's no sensation quite like this. I can't even begin to compare it to anything else save for the sensation of his fingers inside me earlier, just a thousand times more invasive. I'm practically bent in half to accommodate him. The last thing I ever thought I would feel is slutty, but spread out like this, there's no other way to feel. Christ. Not to mention every thrust brings with it a wetly indecent sound that brings a cherry heat to my cheeks. I can feel something hot dripping out of me and down to the bed. If I weren't so far gone with pleasure I might feel bad for the rental owners.

Instead I'm almost numb with how fucking good this all feels. The pain is ever-present, but it's... no, it's not quite pain. Just the sensation of being stretched so far open for the first time. And sometimes he thrusts in at just the right angle to make me melt into the bed with dizzying rapture.

If there's one thing about Sylvain, it's that he isn't stupid. He can be a giant dork, that's true, but he's too observant, too sharp-minded for me to ever get the upper hand with him. He sees what gets the most heightened reactions from me, and he keeps doing exactly what makes me cry out the loudest. It's a calculated attack.

"S-Sylvain...."

In response to my voice, he plunges in deep, drawing a gasp from me, and begins a series of particularly insistent thrusts.

A sudden crescendo of whirlwind pleasure sweeps over me without my realizing it: I come, spilling a mess between our heated bodies. Holy _shit_. I have no idea what he just did, but I've never had an orgasm so surprising or revolver-blast strong before. I quiver uselessly beneath him, holding him tightly as I ride out the aftershocks.

There's no way the rest of the house didn't hear those moans.

"Fuck," he groans; his voice sends me into a full-body shiver. "Felix...."

Every movement inside me feels a thousand times more intense now; my body is raw and sensitive with orgasm. I can tell he's almost at his limit. I slide my hands down his back and down to his ass, squeezing it to spur him on. (God, I used to envy his big ass but in the heat of the moment, I'm just ecstatic that I can touch it. —Guh, what's gotten into me?)

Time practically stops when he comes.

The way he moans draws a sigh out of me. It's strange, thinking of Sylvain as _sexy_ despite having had a crush (what a dull term) on him since... who even knows at this point, but right now, absolutely right now, it pains me how sexy he is. He hovers over me, the sweat on his sculpted shoulders and chest glistening in the dim lamp light. His breaths are low and raspy, slowing gradually. He purses his lips and swallows. I watch the way his throat bobs, enticing as hell.

I lean up and kiss him. He hums pleasantly, returning it with his tongue as interest.

When our lips finally part, he asks, "You all right?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

I shoot a glare up at him. He smiles apologetically, his brows perking up in the middle. That's all I need to soften my expression. I turn my head towards the nightstand, eyes focusing on a shell-encrusted candle holder.

I hardly know what to think. How to feel. It's so sudden. Not in an unpleasant way, far from, but after years of thinking this could never be possible, I don't know how to adjust to the fact that it just happened.

"You know," Sylvain says, rolling off to the side. Not having his weight on me feels strangely empty after all that. "I'm actually kind of mad at you."

"Excuse me?" I turn onto my side, which hurts a little. My legs feel surprisingly weak. My ass, obviously, is achy in a way that makes me worry about getting around in the morning.

"Yeah. I mean, seriously, putting up this front like you hated me for the longest—"

"I did not."

"You did!" He folds his arms behind his head; my eyes flit to his biceps. "Honestly, it was pretty obvious I was into you the whole time."

"You're full of shit, Gautier."

He suddenly springs up and points at me. "That! See, that! That's exactly what I mean. Like, real cold, Fe. You stab right into the heart." His smile is infectious; a languid smirk spreads across my lips as I stare up at him.

"So do you," I say, and for the first time in my life, I don't filter out the rest: "Literally. I think you nudged one of my ribs out of place with your ridiculous dick." I rub my stomach for emphasis.

His mouth actually drops open and his amber eyes go wide.

"Holy shit, Fe. Did you really just crack a dirty joke? You horny little fucker!" He rolls back onto the bed, laughing like a drunken frat boy.

There's a sudden knock at the door. We stare at each other like two kids who've stayed up past their bedtime and mom found us out. It's happened before; I half-expect to hear my dad grouch at us to go to sleep.

Muffled through the door: "My bad. I thought this was the bathroom." The floorboards creak as the person walks away.

"Fucking Linhardt," Sylvain groans, laughing into his forearm, draped across his reddened face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad I finally finished this scene. I've had a rough week, been exhausted for no reason, so this was difficult to finish. 😫 Hope you like it!
> 
> As always, I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/arcana_black).


	22. Sylvain: The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You good?"
> 
> "You keep asking that," he says. "What are you so worried about?"
> 
> "D'know," I mumble, scratching the back of my neck. "Just... stuff's kind of different now."
> 
> "Is it?"
> 
> I'm silent. How is he always so nonchalant? Just when I think I understand what's going on in that pretty little head of his, he ices me out all over again.
> 
> "I still want to kiss you," he says, "just as much as I did before last night."
> 
> He gives me whiplash. From ice cold to sweet as hell in two seconds flat. I laugh.
> 
> "How long have you wanted to?" I ask.
> 
> His cheeks redden. "Fuck off."
> 
> "Come on, Fe. You can't say cute shit like that then expect me not to ask." I slump into the pillows, peering at Felix from almost directly underneath him. No escaping me by turning his eyes down, not this time. "Tell me. How long have you had a thing for me?"

#### SYLVAIN

The sun sends a jolt straight into the backs of my eye sockets; feels like someone's drilling into my skull. Ugh. What a time to remember that exhibit about trepanning I helped curate last year. It takes entirely too much effort to peer into my watch. The display flicks to life: 1:42 PM. Fuck. I turn over—or try to. There's a slim arm across my body and warmth radiating into my back.

I smile.

If this hangover means I finally have the only birthday gift I've ever wanted, then I'll gladly endure the discomfort. I slip my hand over Felix's smaller one, lacing my fingers between his. He stirs behind me. I feel his lips between my shoulders, just a soft brush.

Amazing. Surreal, really, the idea of Felix being affectionate (and not just in my silly fantasies). I get the distinct feeling I got back when I won over Boris, my ex's standoffish tomcat. That took a good six months of trust build-up. Guess Boris has nothing on Felix. This morning spoon session brought to you by a solid fifteen or so years of trust investment.

(Honestly, I think this is my first time being the little spoon. I kinda dig it.)

Time be damned—I think we can afford to sleep in a little longer. We don't have anything to do and really, this is all I want to do.

Finally getting out of bed is a two-man effort. Felix retrieves my glasses from the floor. I barely remember dropping them last night. Effectively blind, my glasses blended right into the hardwood finish; without Felix, I might've found them by stepping on them. It wouldn't have been the first time—you never forget the fatal, plastic crunch of your only pair of glasses underfoot (or under-ass, as it was last time).

We take our showers. I wuss out on asking if I can get in with him. It's not like me to be shy, but Felix isn't my usual fuck. I don't want to make things too weird too fast. (Ignoring the fact that we were up all night fooling around.) He grumbles at the fact that the marks I left on his neck are visible even with his hair down. I endure the glare, only just barely avoiding turning into stone. Jesus. (He's cute even when he's scary.) He opts to put his hair up since it makes no difference anyway. Me, I throw some fresh sweats on and don't even bother putting a shirt on. Why? We're at the fucking beach. So what if it's an unseasonably cool day?

When we walk into the main living space, it goes suddenly quiet.

Dimitri's on the couch. Ingrid and Dorothea sit on the barstools next to the kitchen island.

"Overdid it last night, huh?" Dorothea finally remarks. "It's nearly four. You boys know that, right?" There's an expectant look on her face I don't like. Ingrid mutters something under her breath at her fiancée.

Felix ignores them and goes straight to the fridge. He pours a glass of apple juice for himself. I don't know how he can manage to act so nonchalant, but I'm starting to sweat a little. It's too tense in here.

Dimitri's trying not to look at me. Claude and Linhardt are gone finally. It's just the five of us and... whatever weird energy's in the air.

"Hey, Lixxy," Dorothea says, addressing Felix by the nickname he can't stand, "you wanna borrow some concealer? I think I have a shade light enough for you."

Ingrid all-out smacks Thea's arm.

Felix raises an eyebrow at her. "No." He sips his juice, leans against the counter. Nothing fazes him. Fuck, he's cool as shit sometimes. Even with an apple juice.

"You sure? Those look pretty vivid," Thea goes on, beaming at Felix. When he doesn't bite the bait, she turns that devilish smile onto me instead. My neck prickles with uncomfortable, sudden heat. "What'd you _do_ to him, Sylvie? I mean, it _sounded_ pretty nice—"

 _"Dorothea!"_ Dimitri cuts in, blushing. He's always been such a nerd, dude.

"What!" Thea shoots back. "Honestly, it's about time! Though Ingrid and I were talking—"

"Thea, no!" Ingrid hisses, covering one side of her red face.

"—and she says last night was the first time. I say you two have already hooked up. Who wins?"

Felix groans and walks past me, giving me a look I can interpret well enough by now: Take care of this. He shuts himself in the bedroom.

"Well, Sylvie? I've got five dollars riding on this, hon."

"No!" Ingrid whines. "You made that up! I _never_ agreed!"

I laugh, only slightly nervously. "Trust me, Ingrid would know."

"I told you," Dimitri chimes in.

 _"Et tu,_ Mitri?" I whine.

He clamps his mouth shut and crosses his arms. Yeah, keep sitting this one out, champ. Dorothea crosses her arms.

"Damn," she mumbles, before smiling angelically once more. "Well. So, are you two... you know?"

"I don't know," I say, honest. It's too soon to think about that shit, and besides, my head hurts. I peel a banana and bite a good third of it away. Hungrier than I thought. "Who cares. Just... don't tease Felix, all right? I can take it, but leave him alone."

"Yeah, fine." Dorothea shifts in her seat, propping her chin up with one manicured hand. "But really, what the hell, Sylvie. You went full Jaws on his neck. It's June. How's he supposed to cover that up. Inconsiderate."

Ingrid unsuccessfully suppresses a giggle. "I'll help him out with it later."

"You don't even wear makeup."

"I can put on concealer, Thea."

I let them squabble that one out, giving Dimitri a greeting nod as I walk past, back towards the bedroom. Closing the door behind me, everything suddenly feels safe and quiet again. I lounge next to Felix, holding out what's left of my banana. He takes the last bite. It's nothing new, sharing food and drinks, but it _feels_ new today. I stroke the backs of my fingers along his cheek as he chews.

"You good?"

He finishes chewing, swallows. "You keep asking that," he says. "What are you so worried about?"

"D'know," I mumble, scratching the back of my neck. "Just... stuff's kind of different now."

"Is it?"

I'm silent. How is he always so nonchalant? Just when I think I understand what's going on in that pretty little head of his, he ices me out all over again.

"I still want to kiss you," he says, "just as much as I did before last night."

He gives me whiplash. From ice cold to sweet as hell in two seconds flat. I laugh.

"How long have you wanted to?" I ask.

His cheeks redden. "Fuck off."

"Come on, Fe. You can't say cute shit like that then expect me not to ask." I slump into the pillows, peering at Felix from almost directly underneath him. No escaping me by turning his eyes down, not this time. "Tell me. How long have you had a thing for me?"

"Honestly, I don't know."

"Bullshit."

 _"But,"_ Felix cuts in before I complain more, "remember when you came over to our house to pick Glenn up for that winter wonderland dance? You came over with Emmy Miller."

"Holy shit. What was that, first year of high school?"

"I think so." Felix pulls one knee up to his chest. "It was the first time I remember being jealous. I didn't know what it was at first. But I remember realizing it was jealousy after the fact."

I laugh. Damn. That was... way too long ago. I didn't even remember my date's last name until now. "I think she was my first real girlfriend."

"She was. I avoided you those six months. I hated your guts for having a girlfriend."

"Ouch."

"I bet you didn't even notice."

"Straight up?" I rack my brain thinking about it; nothing comes up. "Can't remember if I did or not."

Felix scoffs.

"But I can tell you I had a crush on you since I was in middle school."

His eyes widen. "...Gross."

"Right, though? You don't know how many times I asked Google if I was gay because of you." I snort and chuckle. "Thank fuck I knew how to delete my browser history even back then."

He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. I push back up into a sitting position, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. After a second, I lean over and press a kiss next to the corner of his eye, high up on his cheekbone. He tilts his head to the side, resting it atop my shoulder.

We sit like this for a good minute or two before something occurs to me.

"Hey, Fe? Is it cool if I hold your hand or kiss you in public? If you're not comfortable—"

"Really, asshole? You've had a crush on me since middle school and you're gonna hold back on me now? After everything?" He slides his hand into mine, settled comfortably in my lap. His lips find their way to mine. All right. I can take a hint.


	23. Felix: Never Fall Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I might fall in love with you, Sylvain."
> 
> It's the closest I can get. I already love him. I have for so long. And he knows this.

#### FELIX

"Your phone's been quiet recently."

It's nice, really. Sylvain drove us to get sushi the other night and it was the first time I can recall his shitty music _not_ being interrupted every six seconds by a notification. (You'd think the interruptions would improve his music, but it just makes it more annoying than it already is.)

"Yeah. Got rid of Tinder. Among other things."

"Oh, so I'm not just a convenient fuck?" I smirk.

He doesn't smile; in fact, his jaw tightens and he looks at me so sternly I wish I could take my words back. So much for trying to lighten up. He crosses the space between our beds. (We still haven't bothered messing with our bedroom layout; we usually just end up in mine.) He puts his hands on my cheeks, lifts my head up to look at him.

"I'm serious, Felix," he says. "You mean everything to me. You always have."

I break away from his grasp. I need to look away; his eyes are too intense and his glasses temper none of that intensity. I stare at a stray thread on my comforter.

"I know," I tell him, quietly.

"Good." He sits next to me and pulls me close to kiss the top of my head. This new mode of communication, this open willingness to touch each other... I'm surprised at how quickly it's become our normal. Too many years of wanting to touch the other and not being able to, I suppose.

"You're a lot more affectionate than I thought you'd be," I say.

"Is that a bad thing? Because I can stop—"

 _"No._ No."

I weigh the next words atop my tongue, feel them out like hard candy. Laugh to myself at how overwhelming this singular feeling is. I never thought this would be me, drowning in this emotion I truly believed only others could feel.

I meet his eyes again. "I might fall in love with you, Sylvain."

It's the closest I can get. I already love him. I have for so long. And he knows this.

He squeezes my hand. "Promise me you'll never fall out."

A pleasant spread of warmth overtakes my entire body. I kiss him. It's the easiest promise I've ever had to make. I've been in love with Sylvain so long I don't know how not to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of this one. Thank you so much for subscribing, kudos, comments, etc. It means a lot to me and I'm happy you enjoyed it.
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/arcana_black) if you like! Thank you for your support.


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